Palladium
by TheMonarchyOfRoses
Summary: Most of the bravest men would break down in their spirits at the brink of death. Mihawk embraced it in the least suicidal sense ever displayed.


He, like many others, was never afraid to express who he was, albeit not having a wide range of emotional reactions to anything. Even as he's bound and tied, condemned to death, he maintains the beastly glare and ominous silence. He could have easily fought back and gotten out of the desert before the night fell, slashing his assailants without a moment's hesitation or regret. But he chose to die bye the sword (his own, mind you) as he had lived.

His wrists were bounded to Yoru unnecessarily tight while the sword was placed into a pile of a rare black ash that masked odors of all kinds, valued at one-hundred dollars per pound. It lasted forever, making the value worth it and worth more. The thirteen _Diablos de Arenas, _or "Sand Devils", were his captors; they were Marines stationed in the desolate deserts with turbans and robes without markings or symbols of authority. Mihawk's obvious sentence was death. A great man like himself had not feared death under any circumstance, for Christ was with him.

Although he was seemingly immoral, he was in fact a man of Christ, as hinted with the Cross scheme donned on himself. Many that knew of him presumed he only wore such articles to be a sacrilegious bastard. Some went into detailed theories; one of which constituted of him being the Antichrist sent from Hell. Poor fools.

The piercing radiant moon cast a luminescent glimmer amongst the grains of crystallized sand, something which struck the Marines as odd. Nonetheless, the corresponding sky with stars complimented the scene, so well actually that one would be lulled into a false sense of harmony. Mihawk took one last panoramic view of Mother Earth, adorning her beauty and majesty. His eyes closed just in time to miss the torch being set alight with a waned fire. The elements were friendly to his naked physique tonight, also an anomaly for this particular desert.

"If you, Dracule Mihawk, have any last words you wish to leave, speak them now," the Don said. He held a quill and a papyrus sheet, as tradition had it. The swordsman of legend took in a deep breath through his nose and opened his eyes once more.

"In Nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti." He said fluently. The articulation was impeccable. The clueless Don sloppily wrote down his final words, misspelling nearly all of them (you don't have to be educated to be a marine, only a drone). He smiled, though, as nobody knew of this execution, and he had the honor of revealing his defeat to the world. Maybe then he could get a promotion that emancipated him from the dreary shifts in the wasteland. He folded the papyrus into his pocket. Taking the torch, he swiftly threw it onto the flammable ash.

The great flames combusted nearly immediately, illuminating a glow like the moon sevenfold. Mihawk was devoured in the flames, but he made no sound of pain, grief, or discontent. Not even an audible grunt. The scene, for some reason, haunted the thirteen Devils for reasons unknown (they have burned many at the steak while talking with their wives at home and asking about the children), disturbing them all with the intensity of the ever-growing blaze. All of them found themselves taking steps back as the ferocious fire roared.

The fire flattered him. His head was down but he was far from dead; he was very much alive. He had never been as bothered by burns as much as cuts. Slicing him to death like he had almost done to Roronoa Zoro would have been real punishment. But not burning. His life revolved around flames, like how he never used electricity for anything: candles for lighting, a fireplace for heating in the winters, burning any garbage accumulated in his time. He was, according to legend, conceived in fire. The only inaccuracy was the part that said it was a legend.

As if the haunting feeling wasn't enough, what happened next would not be believed but by those who primarily witnessed it. As skin melted with muscle and eventually bone, it seemed not to drop, but rise and change. The magnificent flames spiraled. Above the flames was a bird that could pass for either a hawk or a phoenix; the blackness clashed with the dark, a whole new entity of dark itself. The beastly bird spread its wings, easily spanning hundreds and hundreds of feet wide. Letting a cry deeper then bass and louder than explosions, all Marines were met with gaping, burning holes in their torsos, their last images they comprehended before they succumbed to death. The holes repaired themselves and left inscriptions where wounds should have been. The bird took flight into nothingness and the fire died. Left there was an empty sword with no trace of a master.

As to his wishes confided to his somewhat unsought best friend, Mihawk's sword was thrown into a waterfall on a hidden island in South Blue, his secret true birthplace. The strong red-haired pirate shed a tear as he walked back to where his ship was. What had bothered him the most from Mihawk's death was that he didn't know _why_ he died. How would not matter much to him, but he knew the fallen swordsman too well to have died without giving a fight. The only evidence to what could have transpired were the strange and unexplained markings on all of the Marine's chests, all found dead at the scene by Shanks himself.

His message to find Mihawk came to him in a nightmare. Although it was vague, he distinctly remembered a great bird of smoke and ash arising from flames. He did not speak, but merely roared. When he awoke, he knew that the bird in the desert was related to Mihawk in an unspoken connection. He arrived where the Devils had burned him. Many questions never to be answered flooded his mind. He inspected the corpses in a circle; he knew well enough that the language was Latin, but did not know how to read or decipher it. All he did know was that he lost his best friend.

His grumbling stomach brought him out of his depression for a moment to satisfy the urge. Only a few berries were near in the tropical forest. He popped a handful into his mouth and went on his way.

After twenty minutes of walking, he was sure he was lost. He marked the way he had come, so why would he lose track? His head was dizzy and warm, and he could barely trudge. He could only assume that the berries gave him nasty food poisoning. He soon passed out.

When he awoke, it was sunset. He was no longer feeling pain, but a weird lash of relaxation and lethargy. He propped himself on his elbows and turned on his stomach, only to scream briefly when he saw Mihawk standing in front of him, arms outstretched and head down with eyes closed. He reached out his only arm to feel him. Before his finger tips even reached his nudity, he burst into flames, ashes falling to the ground. The pile then formed into the bird in his dream. He was frightened not.

As the bird rose, the water had turned to wine while the forest had turned to sand. The bird blocked out the sun, creating the illusion of night. Without warning, it flew straight into Shanks's chest.

He woke up again; he figured that the berries had induced a hallucination. He finally managed to get back to his ship and sailed away, never to return.

When in his own cabin, he undressed himself for a proper sleep. The tired pirate glanced in the mirror, the next second ran to it, gazing at a Cross-shaped scar on his chest. He felt it, and in that moment, he knew everything. He knew that Mihawk had not lost a fight. He knew that he was defending Christ in his demise. And, to his greatest relief, knew with finality, although it was barbaric, he did not die in vain.

But in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.


End file.
